


A letter from Arras

by spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1823, Canon Compliant, Imprisonment, Missing Scene, Non-Consensual Violence, There is no on-screen sexual abuse, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Majorly Minor Character Week. The prosecutor from Arras, looking for witnesses to identify Jean Valjean, sends a letter to Commissaire Reynaud at Toulon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A letter from Arras

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



**November, 1822**

The rain, which had been tediously steady all afternoon, abruptly became a downpour. Cochepaille groaned and tugged at his green cap.  He was already soaked to the skin but he did not like the water running in his eyes. He bowed his head and kept walking.  As wet as he was, he was not cold, not yet, despite the November chill.  He was still overheated from hours of toil on the ropes.

Cochepaille was near the middle of the ragged line of weary convicts. They were done for the day and were headed back to the _salle_ for dinner and to sleep. They walked in pairs, dragging their chains one uneven step at a time. Near the back of the line someone must have fallen behind because a guard was shouting.

Next to him, Michel tripped and he reached out a hand to steady younger man, grabbing at the loose fabric of the red jacket.  Michel scrambled to his feet and tore Cochepaille’s hand away.  “Leave off!” he snarled. 

Cochepaille frowned.  “Just trying to help,” he said to his chain-mate. He was surprised by the reaction.

“I don’t need your help.” 

Cochepaille shrugged, watching as Michel resumed walking, staying as far from Cochepaille as the chain would allow. “Have it your way,” he said. He knew it would not last. Tonight, when Michel was shivering, it would be a different story.

Abruptly the guard’s club landed across his upper arm and he let out a wordless yelp of pain.  Looking at the guard, his hands clenching unconsciously into fists, he growled, “What was that for?”

“38214, I told you to stop.”

He looked around.  The rest of the line was still trundling off towards the door of the _salle_. Michel stood out of reach, snickering as Cochepaille rubbed the stinging blow on his arm. “But the _salle_ is right there!” he protested.

“You are not going to the _salle_ ,” the guard replied. 

The _salle_ was terrible, more like a reeking winter barn than a place fit for men. When he had first walked into one, it had brought to mind a stable.  The long plank communal bed, with each man laying side by side, chained in place by the ankle, reminded him of a barn:  each horse slotted into its stall, tied at its head so it could not turn around.  At least the _salle_ would be dry and there would be food.  And later, Michel. Blinking the water out of his eyes he looked at the guard, “Why not?”

“The commissaire wants to see you.”

Cochepaille had been imprisoned at Toulon for a dozen years.  The commissaire was someone he had seen from a distance less than ten times. He had never spoken to him. He was not even sure if it was the same man, or if they changed, rotating off to different duties.  

Cochepaille was not one to question guards and orders.  He found that if he did what he was told, they left him alone and that suited him just fine. The idea that he would question a guard not once, not twice, but three times in the space of a dozen breaths was incomprehensible.  Despite that, he looked at the guard with genuine puzzlement and asked, “Why?”

The guard shook his head.  “Damned if I know, _forçat._ Now move!” The guard poked him with the club, prodding him away from the salle door.

“Hey! I’m going, I’m going!” Glancing at Michel, who now looked like a drowned sheep with his clothing clinging to his body and water running in rivulets down his face, he trudged off in the direction of the prison offices, Michel following a step behind. 

By the time they made it across the docks to the offices, Cochepaille was beginning to shiver.  The constant pouring of the rain, the setting sun that gave no warmth, and the temperature that was somewhat above freezing combined with exhaustion.  His shackled leg ached. The cloth he usually wrapped around his ankle to cushion it from the chain had become soaked and muddy, rubbing grit into the bone. Beside him, Michel was suffering even worse.  Where Cochepaille had a body that tended towards pudgy, Michel had become whipcord lean in prison.  Even from ten feet away, Cochepaille could hear his teeth chattering. When he lagged, the guard prodded him with the club.  As tired as he was, Michel stumbled and tripped over his own feet when the guard knocked him off balance.  Cochepaille again offered a hand but Michel swatted it away with an angry snarl.  He did not understand why Michel was acting like this, ungrateful for the help that was offered. 

The door opened and they were standing in a hall.  It was such a relief to have the rain cease and to be out of the wind.  Cochepaille wiped the water from his face when another voice shouted, “For god’s sake, Douniol! Couldn’t you have dried them off first?”

Cochepaille looked up at the voice, seeing the blue blur of another guard coming towards them.

The guard who had escorted them pulled off his own cap, angling it so the water that had pooled in the brim poured on the floor. “You clearly have not been outside, Lasioux. Does the commissaire want them dry or here?”

Cochepaille stopped paying attention to the guards.  Being out of the rain and wind was such a relief.  He pulled his cap from his head and squeezed it out, using the marginally drier wool to wipe his face.   Then a guard was thrusting a blanket at him.  “Here,” the guard said.  “Get the worst of it off.”  The blanket smelled of horses and sweat, but at least he was not dripping anymore.  He draped the blanket over his shoulders and glanced over at Michel. His chain-mate had his blanket pulled tight around his shoulders and his lips were blue.    

The other guard, the dry one, said, “That’s good enough. Let’s go,” and opened a door.

Cochepaille was not quite sure what he was expecting.  Toulon was, after all, a naval base.  He had once been onboard one of the great warships that had come to port to be restocked and he had glanced into an officer’s cabin.  It had been tiny but spotless, with everything stowed just so. There had been a bunk, a bitty desk with a stool and drawers built in under the bed. 

By contrast, the enormous desk, with giant books opened across the surface, stacks of papers and, bizarrely, a red-capped _forçat_ standing to the side of the desk holding even more papers, was about as different from the officer’s cabin as Cochepaille could imagine.  This other prisoner was uncoupled and not even dragging a chain. Cochepaille looked at the man with disgust.  He knew that there were prisoners given the _petite fatigue_ and instead of working on the docks they did clerical work for the guards.  Being illiterate this had never been an option for him and he had nothing but contempt for the traitors who aided the Bourbon pretenders, no matter how tenuously.

Behind the desk sat the commissaire, looking, to Cochepaille’s eyes, very fancy in a bright white shirt with ruffles at his neck.    

Standing along the wall was a pair prisoners, chained _en couple_. One wore a green cap and had hollow cheeks.  The whites of his eyes were yellow.  Cochepaille recognized him, another lifer,  but he could not remember his name.  He had bunked near him for a while and they had worked on the same crew. Years ago, they had moved him to another _salle_ and Cochepaille had only seen him from a distance since then. The lifer’s chain-mate was a stranger to him.  He looked new, with a uniform that was too clean and skin that was too pale to have seen years of Mediterranean sun. 

“38214,” the commissaire said and Cochepaille turned back to the officer.  The officer glanced down at the book, running his finger down a page. The red-capped traitor spoke softly. “Cochepaille,” he supplied, “sir.”

The commissaire nodded and looked back up. “Ah, yes. Cochepaille,” he said. “I have a question for you.”

Cochepaille stared at the commissaire. What a concept, that this man would have a question for him! 

“Cochepaille,” the officer continued, picking up a paper from his desk.  “Did you once know a prisoner by the name of Valjean?  Jean Valjean?  He was here five years ago.” 

“Seven, sir,” said the red-capped prisoner.

“Right, seven.  Do you remember him?” 

Cochepaille frowned.  Valjean, Valjean. He turned the name over in his head. The lifer behind him spoke up. “He was my chain-mate, Cochepaille.  When I first arrived.” 

Cochepaille looked at the other man, studying him. Abruptly he remembered the convict who had been chained to him. The man had been sullen, silent and beastly strong.  “Jean-le-cric!” he answered suddenly.

The other lifer nodded, but Cochepaille flinched.  Yes, he remembered Jean-le-cric.  He remembered Jean-le-cric’s stinking breath. He remembered Jean-le-cric’s fist. He remembered his chain-mate at the time, a kid too young to shave who claimed to have killed three men, watching with dry, wide eyes as Jean-le-cric had shoved Cochepaille against the wall and told him if he ever touched his chain-mate again... 

Cochepaille had been so frightened, he hadn’t touched that chain-mate or any of the others until two years after Jean-le-cric was gone.

He glanced at Michel.  There was a stove in the corner of the office and it was warm.  Michel had relaxed his grip on the blanket, somewhat and did not seem to be shivering as much. He wondered if Michel knew of Jean-le-cric.

The commissaire was speaking. He had no idea what was being said, but clearly an answer was expected.  He looked at the officer with a frown. “I’m sorry sir.”

“I said, _forçat_ , I have here a letter that says that they think that Jean Valjean has been arrested.  The prosecutor is looking for men who can identify him.  If you saw him again, would you recognize him?”

Cochepaille’s eyes widened. The memory of Jean-le-cric’s face looming over his was visceral and strong. He was suddenly angry at what Jean-le-cric had taken from him.  “Jean Valjean is Jean-le-cric?” he asked. 

“Aye.”

He glanced at the sickly lifer standing by the wall and then at Michel.  Turning back to the commissaire he nodded.  “I would recognize him anywhere,” he replied. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to PrudencePaccard for the fact-checking and beta. Thanks to Trompe-la-Mort for more facts! And, thanks to PilferingApples who organized Minor Character Week which inspired me to write this!


End file.
